


But Mom

by LadyCrawley, RememberTheRain



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6633028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCrawley/pseuds/LadyCrawley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RememberTheRain/pseuds/RememberTheRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could not help herself: Mrs. Patria still refused to understand that the idea of knocking door to door to save humanity from perdition, wasn't exactly his son's favorite activity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Mom

**Author's Note:**

> We're two Italian girls, so please, let us know if there are any grammar mistakes.

She could not help herself: Mrs. Patria still refused to understand that the idea of knocking door to door to save humanity from perdition, wasn't exactly his son's favorite activity.

Sitting next to him on the bed, she was trying to persuade him, stroking his back while he kept his head hidden under a pillow.

"But sweetheart, do you really want those poor people to burn in hell? You know well enough that among the duties of a good Jehovah's witness  there's the one of trying to save other people and not only themselves".

He huffed. Of course he knew, and that was the point: he had spent seventeen years of his life being indoctrinated and, even if doing some good was a noble and legit purpose, which he totally supported, the thing he couldn't bear was the way his community wanted to achieve that goal.

At the moment, the idea of consuming all the oxygen under there and choke sounded pretty  attractive to Enjorlas, but since he was way too young to go to the next world, moreover without a somewhat noble purpose, he raised and, squeezing the pillow closer to his chest and sitting with his legs crossed, he watched the expression of the woman, who was still waiting for an answer.

He knew that expression pretty well - it was the expression she would display when the only acceptable answer was precisely the one she wanted to hear, no matter what puppy face he may try to do to persuade her.

If there was a person from whom he got his stubbornness, was exactly Mrs. Patria.

Never, in his entire life Enjolras had ever let anyone force him to do something he didn't want to - Never: no at school, nor at the Hall*, not even the law. 

Despite this, when it came to her mother, the rebel flame which proudly burnt in his chest dimmed, till it became a match closed under a bell jar.

Enjolras loved his mother, too much, and if the second place of his to do list was to tell his school mates that yes, that statement was misogynous, the first place was to be a good son.

And heck, he hated himself for this.

So, instead of burst out a ''let them burn, then'' and leave home, maybe even slamming the door theatrically and without coming back until dinner time, he choose for a  reasonable, calm, and surely convincing conversation:

"But mom, what about FREEDOM OF WORSHIP?"

"Valére!*"

"... fine".

 

* * *

 

And so he found himself, on a Sunday morning, in front of one of the ugliest block of flats he had ever seen, a tie around his neck and an infinity of leaflets in his hand, ready to direct some poor lost sheep back on the right way.

Bollocks.

His mother, who wanted to make it easier for him and who, in the end, had a tender heart, had him promise to deal with at least a family, while she did the rest of the apartments.

It was a good compromise and, after the woman saluted him with a kiss on his cheek and went directly inside the building to knock on the doors, Enjolras took a moment for himself to look through the various names on the intercom and choose the one he liked the most.

His attention was caught by some "Grantaire" and, deciding it did sound quite nice, he rang the doorbell.

"Who's there?" asked a male voice through the electric device.

He rolled his eyes and said the sentence he hated the most "Jehovah's Witnesses".

French Revolution, that would have been cooler.

When he heard a laughter in response, he immediately thought he'd been sent away as usual, when he had to do this, but this time he heard the sound of the door being opened (which, however, was already fully opened) and, thanking to be able to finish his task as soon as possible and without looking desperately for another family, he reached the third floor, where Mr. whatever-his-name-was Grantaire, was waiting for him.

He was surprised to see through the door a boy who looked in his twenties.

He was wearing a faded green sweater a judging by how his dark hair were messy, Enjolras deducted he might not have been the kind of guy who cared about his look.

While he invited him to sit in the living room with a smile, he thought that, contrary to his sloppy appearance, he was really welcoming.

His house, wasn't.

The TV was covered in dust and probably broken, due by the fact it had a big hole in the low left corner and hadn't been used for a while; a sports bag, with clothes coming out of it was used to stop the door between the living room and the kitchen; some books, fallen from the shelves, stood on the floor as none had bothered to take care of them, and the table was covered in pieces of rubber and that colored powder you make when you sharpen a pencil.

But it wasn't his business and he didn't eve care, so Enjolras obviously kept himself from making any comment, he just rushed into taking out his leaflets and took a deep breath.

"Is everything alright?" enquired his host, noticing his embarrassment "What's your name?"

"Enjolras, and you?"

"Just call me R" said him, with a smile still on his face.

R like... Grantaire? Big R?

Inexplicably, the terrible pun made him smile.

"R? Seriously?" he looked very pleased of himself - "Well, look R, I want to be honest: I don't want to be here and I truly don't understand why you want to listen to me. I mean, you're twenty and the only way you have to entertain yourself is to listen to a boy who's trying to convince you that, in the name of a God, whose existence isn't even a certainty, to abort or being homosexual or some other bullshit is wrong? Because, I don't know about you, but I'd have something to say about all of this and if it wasn't for my mother I swear to you that-"

"I'm nineteen" But I'm oooold for my aaage [Translator's note]

He stuck, giving him a confusing look.

"Years old, I mean"

"Okay..." said Enjolras, annoyed by someone speaking over him. He couldn't understand what that boy wanted; he was making important critics and his interlocutor was interested only in telling him he was wrong in guessing his age. And it was just a year, moreover.

"In any case" he said, trying to collect his thoughts, but Grantaire - or, R - stopped him again.

"You're totally right. You know, sometimes I let Witnesses come in just because I like to ask them uncomfortable questions just to see how they react. Then they end up calling me a cynic and inviting me to join them to understand everything better, but I've got to say it won't be this funny with you. Or I think so - anyway, what's your name? You just told me your last name.

"You didn't tell me either" - Enjolras wasn't sure about feeling more relieved or disturbed by that guy.

"Let's make a deal, if you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine - and I swear it's even funnier than my nickname".

Noticing how much he had just giggled made him feel a little embarrassed and his name came out with a less convincing tone that the one he wanted - "Valére"

"It could have been Bacchus"

"Bacchus as the Roman God?"

R rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, smiling, then put back the arm on the table and looked back at Enjolras, the light in the room making him look blonder than he actually was - "I've been unlucky, I was given birth by two people who were really keen on mythology".

R making fun of himself made the tension he felt before go away and, accidentally, he leaned forward and proposed a compromise - "Another deal: you just call me Enjolras and I'll pretend I don't even have any idea of who Bacchus is"

Grantaire moved his body forward too, touching the boy's wrist, whose arms were now stretched on the table - "Or I might call you Apollo"

 

* * *

 

He'd never guessed it, judging by his appearance, but Grantaire was a good kisser and, despite the weight, having him pressed against his own body was really pleasant.

Unfortunately, all beautiful things come to an end, and their thirty minutes of making out were stopped by someone's knocking at the door.

"Fuck" said Enjolras, who already knew it was his mom, since his telephone never stopped vibrating in his pocket while he was busy in more important stuff to care about it.

R jolted at the unexpected interruption and went towards the door to answer, while the other was hurriedly fixing his jacket and hair, praying not the be blushing because yes, sometimes even he prayed.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, but I was looking for my son, Valére"

Hearing the two of them talking, he gathered his stuff and went to the door, where Grantaire was praising him.

"You know, Madame, your boy is so convincing. Speaking to him really opened up my mind, you should be proud!"

The woman's eyes were sparkling and, as she saw him, she happily took his arm, dragging him out of the apartment and giving him a ''told-you-so'' look.

"Well, I think it's time to go, I hope to see you among us very soon" she said, dragging her son down the stairs.

"Goodbye, Madame! Bye, Enj! See you in the church, or whatever" Grantaire saluted them enthusiastically, while Enjolras, who wanted to kill him, descended the stair looking very uncomfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> * The Kingdom Hall, where the witnesses reunite to pray.  
> * A word to the wise


End file.
